


Running Dry

by LavendelQueer



Series: There Is a Flag, There Is No Wind [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Relapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5937844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavendelQueer/pseuds/LavendelQueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He woke with cotton in his mouth and the sun splitting open his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Dry

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a lot of feelings about my Trevelyan lately and how he deals with his relationships and especially how he helps Dorian with his alcoholism so I wrote this at 3 am in 20 minutes enjoy

He woke with cotton in his mouth and the sun splitting his head.

Dorian groaned as he rolled over, in nothing but the under tunic he was wearing last night and the grime of alcohol-sweat clinging to his skin. It took a moment for him to realize he was not on the silk sheets in his own bed, nor was he on the smooth fur blankets of Petyr’s, and that there were blank spots in his memory to how exactly he ended up without pants in a strange bed. Moving was quite difficult at the moment, so he lay counting the knots in the wood of the ceiling urging his rebelling brain to remember anything.

The door opened mid knock before he even noticed the sound and Petyr stepped through carrying a covered tray. His lover gave him a rueful smile before setting it down on the dresser at the end of the bed. Petyr said nothing while he fidgeted with the dishes, the sun turning his black hair silver and freshly scrubbed skin echoing with flecks of war paint on the back of his neck.

“What time…?” Dorian managed before his throat closed, not sure if it was shame or dehydration choking him.

“About quarter past 10 bells. You’re in a spare room in the tavern.” Petyr replied gently, turning his head enough for Dorian to make out the dark spikes of his tattoos before returning to his task, the sound of liquid being poured into a cup filling the small room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapping Dorian’s hands around it before urging the other mage to sit up, helping the foul liquid into his mouth. Dorian gagged at the texture but gulped it down before sitting back against the pillows, closing his eyes.

Neither man said anything for a few minutes, letting the sounds of the tavern waking up for the day drift into the room as Petyr held Dorian’s hand between his own, rubbing his thumb across the back of it and tracing the pale blue veins with his calluses. Dorian’s eyes were squeezed shut as if in pain, and Petyr simply waited for it to start.

“I’m…I don’t…kaffas.” It’s almost a whisper when it comes out, hand tightening in Petyr’s grip.

“Four months mo grá, you made it four months.” Petyr interrupts with a kiss to his forehead. “You’re doing so well amatus, grá, so well.” He stands and retrieves a bowl from the tray, sitting back on the bed and placing it in his hands, the smell of fresh berries reaching his nose. Snatching a berry off the top and popping it into his own mouth, Petyr swung his legs onto the bed next to him, feet bare and arms across his stomach.

“You southerners and your pride in callouses.” He quips before starting to eat, his stomach still fragile despite the sobering potion. Petyr chuckles, rumbling from his chest to where his arm rested against Dorian’s.

“You lowlanders and your insistence on beauty instead of function.” He gives back, tilting his head up to bathe in the light coming from the uncovered window. Dorian looks at the curve of his Adam’s apple, tracing constellations in the freckles with his eyes that he knows by heart with his lips. He has to gulp down the next bite through the shame clawing out of his throat.

“You Avvar and your damning accents, fasta vass.”

Dorian slowly sets the half empty bowl down on his other side, leaning forward until his head rests on his knees and his arms crossed beneath. A hand lays gently across his back, rubbing smooth circles atop the cotton.

“I’ve been told it’s a favorite amongst beautiful Vints.” They sit in silence for another while, the circles never stopping.

“How can you-“ He’s shushed before the words truly come out, the hand moving towards his neck to work the knots there.

“Hush, you’re safe Dorian. You made it four whole months and I am so proud of you. It’s a lazy morning, half the hold is reciting the chant for Gods know what reason, you and I are going to sit here for a while longer before going to my quarters. We’re going to draw up a bath, grab some books, and spend a day doing nothing. We’ll get some food sent up for us and you’re going to let me take care of you. Does that sound ok to you?” Petyr’s hand never stops along its path between spine, shoulder, neck, shoulder, spine, a gentle hum of healing settling into his muscles.

“I-“ “Yes or no, amatus.” Petyr’s accent suspends the “a”’s and Dorian clings onto them like a lifeline.

“Yes.” He almost whispers into his knees, still not raising his head. Petyr hums in approval and makes no move to stop, waiting until Dorian nodded and moved to unfurl his spine. He remained sitting on the bed as Dorian moved about, grabbing the spare clothes Petyr brought in with him, fastening each buckle methodically. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way green eyes trace each ruffled hair, how the leather tightens against muscle and creates shadows in the fabric beneath.

When he was finished he heard the bedsprings creak, not turning until Petyr’s hand grasped his, twining their fingers gently. Lips pressed against his hairline and he opened the tavern room door, stepping out to the sounds of Maryden’s ballads and the clink of glasses, and the scent of embrium on fresh cotton.


End file.
